


No Game

by Wolkemesser



Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: Flash Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 13:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15195941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolkemesser/pseuds/Wolkemesser
Summary: A hunter sets out on the trail of a winter quarry.Inspired by a WotC Flash Fic Prompt





	No Game

The cold air whistled through Pheld’s beard and cut the inside of his nostrils as he breathed it in. Beneath that icy thickness, the smells of the forest filled him: the sharp spice of pine needles, the miasma of damp leaves, drying scat…

…and somewhere, the musk of woodland beasts not yet bedded down for the winter.

Fjella sniffed the air as well, and turned a knowing look toward her master. Pheld had a keen nose, but a wolf’s was keener still, and she had caught the scent of their quarry.

Pheld nodded, silent, and gestured forward, fingers outstretched. Fjella gave a low growl and one of her pack stalked silently out from the trees, nose probing at the breeze that wound through the forest.

A few steps further, another growl. A third wolf crept from the shadows and prowled ahead of them.

They traveled deeper into the forest. More growls. More wolves.

One by one Fjella called the pack to her master’s aid. They fanned out ahead of Fjella and Pheld; snouts, ears, and eyes alert for signs of their quarry. The path they followed was unbeaten, marked only by faint discrepancies in the snow-covered leaves and in the smells of the winter woods.

The path took them to a riverbank, where the waters moved sluggishly under thick layers of ice. Djarn and Follborn, twin wolves with eyes like the summer skies, perked up their ears and approached a hollow by the banks.

A roar and a shifting of the snow. A rush of fur. A bear reared up from within the hollow, eyes wide with agitation.

She spread her arms, and growled a warning to the siblings not to dare any closer. Three cubs peered from around the bear, the aggression in their own eyes tempered with curiosity and fear.

The pack looked to Fjella.

Fjella looked to Pheld.

Pheld shook his head, the antlers of his helm stirring the falling flakes of snow.

“Leave her to her cubs. They will grow fat through the winter, and we will meet them on equal terms in the spring. Our quarry lies further ahead.”

And so they continued, the bear’s gaze upon them as they crossed the frozen stream.

The path took them into the foothills. Massive snow-laden stones squatted sullenly between the trees, which grew thinner and fewer between as the land grew steeper. Knalda, the yearling with ears already notched and scarred from the hunt, bounded up onto a rock high on the slopes and growled. A harsh bark like rolling thunder escaped from her throat.

Pheld mounted the slope in haste. The wolves scrambling up all around him to see what the yearling had found.

A yeti loomed there, a thick icicle clutched in one meaty fist, an auroch carcass in the other.

The Yeti returned Knalda’s growl with a roar, and flecks of blood joined the snow twirling through the air. The wolves stood shoulder-to-shoulder, fangs bared.

They looked to Fjella.

Fjella looked to Pheld.

Pheld shook his head, minute icicles falling from his pale beard.

“Hunter must respect hunter. Leave master Yeti to her meal, and she will leave us to our own quarry.”

And so they continued, giving the yeti a wide berth, and giving longing looks to the still-warm meat in her jaws.

The path took them down the slopes, where the trees grew tall and close. Where the sun struggled to stroke the forest floor below thick evergreen curtains.

Fridda, the one-eyed alpha of two winters ago, put her forepaw against a fallen tree and howled. A long, lingering note of triumph.

Pheld ran to the tree. Fjella followed in his wake, barking at each of her pack in turn to fall in line behind her.

A boy was huddled behind the tree, shivering badly. His ankle bent at a harsh angle halfway between heel and knee. He barely had the strength to lift his face as Pheld’s shadow loomed over him.

“H-h-huntmaster?”

The pack looked to Fjella.

Fjella looked to Pheld.

Pheld nodded, and reached down to seize a fallen branch; one thick and supple, and not too heavy to wield. He raised the branch up above the boy, and brought it down, hard, onto his own knee, snapping it neatly in half. Another crack and he had fashioned a serviceable splint, which he bound to the boy’s broken leg with strips of hide.

“Angus. Your father is weeping by your bedside, child; why did you come out here alone?”

The boy’s lip trembled. When he spoke, his voice shook with cold and weakness.

“Th-the elders say the s-s-snow will not m-melt. F-father s-says he does not…he does not know if he can f-feed us all until the s-spring. If…if I can bring back food…if I could only h-help with the hunt…” The boy’s voice cracked as he coughed; a frail, wheezing sound.

“And..and if I c-cannot…it is one less m-mouth. I won’t be…no-one will really…”

His voice trailed off.

Pheld removed his cape and lay it across the child’s shoulders.

“You are missed.”

The boy nodded slowly, barely more a movement than his shivers, and then began to weep, a sickly cry escaping past his lips.

Pheld wrapped the child in his cape, tucking the thick furs together to form a sturdy bundle.

“Hold fast, child, we’ve a long way to go.” Pheld stood, cradling the boy in his arms. He whistled to the pack, and they dispersed ahead of him to scour the underbrush for hares and other winter morsels. Fjella kept pace by his side, sniffing the air for danger.

And so they turned back, for hearth and for home.

 

 

 

_“No Game” is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC._


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